


Ache

by gay_jeans



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 4x02 "Canticle", Canon Divergence, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Suicide Attempt, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Thursday is Dadtm, Win is Momtm, poor baby's just lost and hurting, they love our boy sm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_jeans/pseuds/gay_jeans
Summary: “What are you afraid of, Morse?”Right now he supposes he should be worried about the blade clutched in her grip, but he’s not. That’s just a fly buzzing around his ears. No, right now the world is swallowing him up, teeth chomping through flesh and bone; it’s hot and suffocating and no one is clawing at the monster in some attempt to rescue him. He’s going to die, alone, with no one to shed a tear for him.





	Ache

**Author's Note:**

> if the tags are not enough: TRIGGER WARNING for on-screen suicide attempt.
> 
> is it hard to tell i love this boy?

It’s a cruel irony.

He’s crawling, heaving himself up a ferociously steep staircase that seems to never end, a mad-with-unrequited-love killer stalking behind him quietly waiting to drive the knife through his flesh. His head is swimming with the drugs and he’s positive he can hear his father’s clucking his tongue at him — quite literally, he’s seen him out of his peripheral vision, lurking behind walls and doors.

It’s all kind of like his life right now. 

Endeavour’s hands and knees are starting to ache. 

“What are you afraid of, Morse?”

Right now he supposes he should be worried about the blade clutched in her grip, but he’s not. That’s just a fly buzzing around his ears. No, right now the world is swallowing him up, teeth chomping through flesh and bone; it’s hot and suffocating and no one is clawing at the monster in some attempt to rescue him. He’s going to die, alone, with no one to shed a tear for him. 

He messed up with Monica. She deserved better and he never picked up the pieces when he was released from prison. Maybe he thought she had moved on, but longing glances and casual greetings laced with pain begged otherwise. She hadn’t, and to be honest, neither had he. 

Then Jakes left. If he’d been told Peter’s leaving would affect him to the extent that it did, he’d have scoffed and never given it another thought. The bloke wasn’t exactly affectionate, but even within the parameters of an office friendship, they weren’t close. He mourned the loss of what could have been. 

Joan was special. They clicked. She was funny and clever and kind, not to mention she had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, and she wasn’t intimidated by anyone or anything — so it seemed. He tried to convince her to stay but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Her mind was made up. And he understood her. They suffered through the bank robbery together and he’d been through a lot before that as well, so he truly grasped that the burning echoes the remnants of trauma whispered were sometimes too much to handle; sometimes, he wished he could run away and it would fix everything. But Joan had strings attached to her back, tugging at her to return. She had friends and family.

He didn’t. He had her, though, and she left. 

Ever since then Thursday’s given him the cold shoulder and saved only the barest morsels of his attention and nerves for Endeavour. Needless to say the older man’s been snappy and short with him, and it stings like a slap. Maybe Thursday blamed him for not convincing Joan to stay. Maybe he was blaming himself for not being enough for Joan to stay. That’s definitely what Endeavour’s done. 

But Thursday’s negligence has been the most hurtful, the most damaging of all the relationships abandoned. Endeavour’s father was not a kind man. When he was a child, he didn’t understand why his father left them. 

_ Why doesn’t Daddy live with us anymore? Does he not like us? Were we bad?  _

Then his world skidded to a violent stop when his mother died. She was his rock, his friend, his nurturing parent. Cyril was the exact opposite, constantly berating and jabbing at, negligent and absent. Gwen was no help. He despised her. Still does. 

Endeavour first refrained from establishing roots anywhere or forming solid relationships. That was for people who knew who they were and who they were going to be, and he learned as a young boy to adapt to his surroundings. He’d go where the wind took him until he landed somewhere he knew would be home. If he ever landed. His toes had touched the ground of Oxford timidly and ready to spring again at the first sign of instability, but Thursday grounded him. 

The inspector was tough and confident but his calloused exterior could soften when sensing vulnerability. And he could sense it very well. He didn’t push often, which was something Endeavour appreciated, but truth be told sometimes he needed a shove. Thursday had the gall to do it. Thursday’s the only one he’d let do it. 

Endeavour remembers the moment he realized he may have found a surrogate father. They were watching football, of all things, on the TV. The older man was literally on the edge of his seat, shouting at the television alongside Sam, while Joan and Mrs. Thursday rolled their eyes at the boys’ antics. Somewhere in the middle of all this Endeavour sat, aware of the fact he was presently taking part of a typical family night. 

The thought rolled around his head for days. 

He allowed his heels to touch the ground rather than tip-toeing about like he was ready to leap away. 

Then it all hit the fan and his world started to crumble yet again. 

He’s crawling, heaving himself up a ferociously steep staircase that seems to never end, a mad-with-unrequited-love killer stalking behind him quietly waiting to drive the knife through his flesh. His head is swimming with the drugs and he’s positive his father’s clucking his tongue at him. He’s seen him out of his peripheral vision, lurking behind walls and doors.  


He pulls himself along and finds himself cornered in some room. 

Agony, despair, anger and crippling loneliness builds up in his throat and releases itself in a guttural scream. His arms move to cover his head and he must’ve bumped into something because glass shatters on the ground next to him. A shaking hand reaches out timidly and he loses his balance, forearms catching him on the shards. It hurts. But it’s real. 

He takes a handful, whatever he can manage to grab in his hazy state of mind, and rakes it down the inside of his arm. What his movements lack in coordination, his mind makes up for in determination. Blood seeps out of the wounds. 

_ ‘Nothing’s keeping you here,’ Bright said. ‘No friends, family…’  _

He sobs. 

Slash. Jab. Claw. Stab. Tear.  _ Just make it all stop. _

Hands seize his wrists and shake violently, forcing whatever glass that isn’t already embedded into the palm of his hand to the floor 

“Shit, Morse! We need medical, now!”

Thursday, he realizes hazily.

Large and stiff fabric bury his arms with a painful pressure. He’s trying to stop the bleeding. Part of him wants to fight Thursday’s attempts to keep him anchored to life and all the pain, loss, and numbness that comes with it, but he submits to the older man as his frame is racked fiercely with relentless sobs. 

“Morse, Morse — look at me. Right now, you look at me.” His voice is not soft and gentle, it’s commanding and fearful. It’s the voice that’s always snatched the attention of anybody within range, and it doesn’t fail now. 

“Stay with me, now.” His attention turns to Emma, cuffed and in Strange’s grasp. “What the bloody hell did you give him?!”

She may answer, she may not. Endeavour doesn’t know. He isn’t paying attention anymore. Now, he’s still and quiet save for the occasional slurred mumbling about Mrs. Thursday’s sandwiches, fingers and arm twitching uselessly in Thursday’s grasp. Everything feels wet. 

At some point, he doesn’t remember when, everything goes black.

* * *

The first thing he’s aware of when he comes to is the thick, heavy gauze wrapped around his entire forearm and the opposite hand. A slow, steady dripping sound starts to annoy him enough to crack sleep-crusted eyes open. Dimmed sunbeams strike plain white walls and cast a vacant, quiet aura to the room.

He observes Thursday studying the paper at the end of his bed and slams his eyes  shut. He doesn’t want to deal with... _ anything _ right now. Reality. The inevitable repercussions of his drug-induced, but his all the same, suicide attempt. His broken flesh. His broken relationships. His broken life.

The door creaks open and he identifies the culprit to be Sargent Strange by his voice. “Sir, your wife’s arrived.”

“Ah. Thank you, Strange.” Thursday’s voice is rough, like he could use a cup of water. 

“Shall I… inform her as to the transpired events?”

“No, no. I’ll tell her. Best if it comes from me, I think.”

The gashes on his arm start to burn and tears well up in his eyes. It doesn’t matter if they weren’t as close as they could’ve been, shame burns as he registers that he’ll have to face her and the saddened eyes he’s unfortunately familiar with.    


He can’t imagine how awkward it’ll be to show up to work where surely most of his colleagues will know. It’s embarrassing. 

There’s a shuffling of feet and a breathless greeting, an audible kiss. 

“I brought you a sandwich that I want you to eat up, and one for… I brought one for Morse, too.”

“Thank you, Win. I’m going to wait for him to wake up. Should be soon.”

A shuddering breath. “He’s so pale… How is he? Jim filled me in a little on the way here but he was vague.”

“Well, he was with Emma when we realized she was the killer we’d been looking for. By the time we arrived she’d drugged him, and he…” He trails off. 

“Fred?” she eventually prompts. 

A sigh. “Win, he cut his arm real bad. On purpose. Tried to bleed himself out.” The silence is so much louder than he can bear. “Didn’t realize there was something going on in his head. I’ve had my mind too clouded up with worry over Joan to look out for the family I’ve got here under my watch.”

It’s perfectly silent for a few minutes. Then a choked and stifled sob breaks Endeavour’s heart — it came from Mrs. Thursday. 

“Come now, Win. There, there; take this handkerchief.” The older man’s voice sounds as if on the verge of breaking despite his attempt to cheer his wife up. 

She sniffs. “Doesn’t he know? That we’re there for him?”

“I think that’s where I’ve gone wrong, love. And it’s where I’ve got to change.”

“The both of us.”

Another few minutes pass of Mrs. Thursday sniffling, hushed words shared between the married couple. He’s almost asleep again when a small, soft hand threads timidly through his hair. He takes this opportunity to lean into the touch and crack his sleep-crusted eyes open. He’s met with Mrs. Thursday’s puffy brown eyes.

“There’s a dear, look at those pretty eyes.” Though her voice cracks it’s evident she is pleased he’s awake.

His lips curve into a weak but genuine smile. His eyes drift to Thursday, who gives a nod that doesn’t hide the relief in his eyes. 

Maybe he can deal with everything later. For now, his stomach is rumbling, and Friday’s sandwich waiting for him.


End file.
